Patchwork Souls
by Celtic Blades
Summary: Because love is not always tender. A series of Dark Legolas/Boromir drabbles that don't fit into the more upbeat Stand By You story. When you are both broken by a father's love, how do you learn to trust and care in a healthy way? Mature themes. I tried a new writing style, please let me know if it works. Legolas/Boromir SLASH (Kind of an AU of my AU)
1. Chapter 1

Battle Scars

The lamps flicker softly in the breeze that makes the gauze of the bed curtains shimmer, the leaves in trees above them rustle and sigh. Just another pair of glow lights in Lothlorien, this city of fireflies. Boromir shifts a bit on his side of the mattress, smiles, feels the elf move with him, wrapping his arms tighter as Legolas curls into him. The elf rubs his cheek against him, fidgeting as the man's chest hair tickles his nose.

Boromir doesn't know who's talan this is, who's house Legolas has appropriated for the night, he's just very grateful for this island of isolation, this tiny space for the two of them to share for this time given to them.

He's not asleep, doesn't want to be, doesn't want to waste a moment of this blissful privacy. He opens his eyes, feeling the delicious languor that comes after their lovemaking. He always wants this to last forever, this moment of perfection. It never does, and he pushes that thought away, concentrates on the here and now, the sweat drying on his chest, the softness of the sheets, Legolas' breath, slowing now.

Long fingers trace the line of his collarbone, and Boromir shivers deliciously, runs a hand up the elf's arm to stroke his jaw, so strong and yet so smooth. Legolas stops his exploration to feel a scar near Boromir's shoulder. He caresses the raised skin, curious.

"Where did you get this?" he asks, in that blunt way Boromir has come to love. Boromir grins in the dark and pushes loose strands of the elf's hair behind his shoulders.

"Tavern fight," he says simply, and feels the elf grin against his skin.

"Tell me," Legolas demands, dancing his fingertips along the cords of Boromir's neck.

So Boromir does, how he and Faramir, away from the watchful eyes of their father, slipped down to a "low" tavern and Boromir, full of youthful arrogance, despite Faramir's best efforts, managed to start a decent little brawl, before the tavern keeper, recognizing his guests, hustles them both out of there and back up to the citadel. He chuckles at the memory.

"Your turn," he says, his hands slipping down to the elf's forearm. The scar is small, but the edges are ragged, suggesting a tear, not a clean cut. Legolas shrugs, finds that the memory is not as painful here as it would be anywhere else.

"Sword practice. I was too slow."

"You?" Boromir asks, raising a brow. Legolas tilts his head to look up at his face, rubs the back of his hand along the stubble that fascinates him so much. The elf's cheek is still pink from the rasp of it.

"I've never been good with swords," he admits, amazed at how easily the words come. "My father was determined I should be. When I let my guard down, he broke my arm." It's said without rancour, just a recitation of a fact.

Boromir bolts upright, Legolas tumbling to the mattress. He props himself up on an elbow and looks candidly at the man, seeing not pity in in that blue gaze but anger and terrible recognition. Legolas hates that look, he knows that part of Boromir is back in Gondor. He wants Boromir to understand, to know that he is not alone, he is not the only one with seams on his heart.

"It was his duty, Boromir," he says, clearly and concisely, stressing the word. "I would not be a warrior if I could not defend myself. It was my duty to learn."

Boromir reaches out and strokes the arm, feeling the scar, imagining the force it would take to break bone with the flat of the blade. He begins to shake, indignation filling him at the deliberate cruelty. Legolas sits up and gathers him into his arms, as he always does when Boromir's thoughts go flitting back to his family.

"Duty, Boromir," he repeats softly.

"That doesn't make it right," Boromir all but spits, the earlier peace of the evening is gone now, he wants to find Thranduil and choke him.

The elf knows it is not only his father the man is furious with. They share so much more than Boromir will admit, more than he wants to know. It has to come out before it cankers both of them. Legolas runs his hand down his lover's back, stopping when he finds the raised skin of another scar, a large one, awkward and ugly.

Boromir freezes and Legolas tenderly runs gentle fingers over the scar, leaning his forehead into the man's cheek. "This one wasn't right either, was it?" he says, his voice full of love and understanding. "This was a blow you caught protecting another."

Boromir turns away, rolls to his side, he doesn't want to talk about this, he doesn't want to admit to the truth of the marks on his body. He's kept that memory locked away so deeply he doesn't realize how much it determines so much of what he is.

"You still don't use a sword," Boromir says, almost accusingly, as he gestures to the pile of weapons on the floor. The ivory handles of the elf's knives glow dully in the faint light. He wants to turn this back on the elf, he wants to keep his secrets.

"Because I choose not to," Legolas tells him. "I can if I must. But it is not who I am."

Legolas is ruthless in his honesty and needs Boromir to face the truth. He hears the man cry out in the night, he knows the anger that even his love can only force away for a little while, the fear that comes creeping in every time Boromir stops struggling against it. More than anyone in their company he understands it and it's as much for himself as his lover that he pushes so hard.

"Look at me," he says, softly, but demanding as well. He sits up on the bed and pulls the man around to face him. Boromir resists, turns his head away, angry that he's been betrayed by his own skin. Legolas takes his face in both his hands and gazes into those icy eyes. It's like looking into the depths of a glacier, hidden crevices of truth illuminated by sunlit control.

"Tell me," he orders. Boromir closes his eyes for moment, and Legolas feels his heart break. He doesn't want to hurt the man, he doesn't want to do this now. He wants to caress Boromir back into comfort, back into the bliss they'd shared before. But he is also tired of being the strong one. He needs Boromir to admit what floats beneath them, what threatens them from the inside. So his will does not weaken. He learned his duty early.

"It was Faramir's beating, wasn't it?" It's not a question. Legolas knows the answers as well as if he'd been there. It's written over Boromir like a dwarf's tattoos, like the scar on his back. He reads it on his lover like a well worn scroll.

Boromir's lid's fly open and he glares at the elf, hating himself for not being able to hide anymore. He gives Legolas what he wants instead. With a snarl, he stares, letting him see the beast he carries inside. Lets him see the rage and fury that he fights so hard to keep from the world. He is startled when he realizes that it's not his anger he sees reflected in the elf's wintery eyes. Legolas' own demons are staring back at him.

"It was." He growls lowly, through teeth that clench even now, all these years later. "He didn't deserve it!" He sees his father, his staff raised high, Faramir crouching down to make himself as small as possible, trying to escape that merciless stroke. Through red-tinged memory he feels again that impossible burst of speed as he dove at his brother, shielding him, hears the whistling of the rod as it falls, tearing skin, cries out in shock as the rod comes down again and again, as Denethor, in his fury, punishes both his sons. "I took it for him, and tried to protect him. My father" he spat the word, "mocked my misplaced pity. Told me to be strong and not waste time on the weak!"

Legolas' eyes never flicker, never show any shock, only his own torment. Boromir realizes that he knows, that he's felt the same things that Boromir has kept locked in his heart all his life. The elf is not disgusted, he is empathetic.

"Faramir always blamed himself," he tells the elf, wrapping words around the pain, offering it up. "His only crime was to look like our mother. He has her eyes, her way of tilting his head." He tries to look away, but Legolas refuses to let go, holds him in this place, this moment. They can only go forward from here.

"Love and hate entwine in me," the elf says, "until I don't know where one begins and the other ends." It's his own piece of truth, fragile as glass. "I took my mother's life, but had no brother for my father to favor. So I was both beloved and forsaken. I don't know which hurt me more."

Something tightens along Boromir's jaw, Legolas can feel him trembling in his hands. But this is not about blame or guilt. This is about the gossamer strands that bind them together tighter than iron bands. He waits, knowing that Boromir must speak next, must say the words to him before they can move on.

"I wanted him to love me," Boromir says, finally, ashamed of the weakness that makes him admit it, exalted at the trust that he can. He wants to say that he's always been indifferent to his father, that he's his own man, but he can't. He takes the splinter from his soul and gives it to the one person he thinks can destroy it, or at least hold it for him for a while.

"I want him to love me," he says again, his voice broken, "but not at the cost of my brother. He will never love me while I love Faramir. If I were a better man, I could bring them together, I could mend what breaks both their hearts. But I can't." His face is a grimace of agony. "I'm helpless between them. I'm not good enough."

"Neither am I," Legolas tells him, gently stroking the side of the man's face. Boromir leans into the caress as if it is the only real thing in the world. And then he realizes what the elf has said.

Fury races through his veins, his eyes change from ice to fire in an instant, and he pushes away from that self-pity, lets go of the past in a smouldering second.

"Never!" he snaps, reaching out. He laces his fingers through Legolas' hair, pulls him close, kisses him with an intensity he's never felt, even though he's done this so many times before. His rage ignites something stronger than passion, stronger than the fragile love unfolding between them. He wants to posses the elf completely, pull the doubt from him, fill him with all he's given to Boromir, all the understanding, all the confidence, all the compassion.

Boromir is relentless, and crushes the elf's mouth to his. He won't stop, until Legolas bites him, sharply, enough to draw blood. He glares at the man, panting from bruised lips, "I'm not good enough."

A growl begins low in Boromir's chest and he pushes the elf back on the bed, still tangled in his hair, but Legolas fights him. He flips him over, straddles him, pins his arms behind his head, paying no attention to the hair that pulls out with Boromir's fists. He looks down at him, face flushed and all the tempests of the sea in those changeable eyes.

"Not good enough, Boromir," he pants again, "why can't you see that?"

"Shut up!" Boromir howls, breaking one arm free and pulling the elf down to his chest. He tries to roll, but Legolas is biting again, muttering against his skin.

"Why do you keep saying that?" Boromir wants to scream, but his mouth is full of white hair and moonlight, it comes out a muffled whisper.

"Because you won't believe me!" Legolas rasps, dragging his teeth down Boromir's neck. "Because I'm as broken as you are! And you won't be honest with me!" He twists away, and Boromir stops struggling. Legolas pulls himself up and stares out, across the bed, through the filmy curtains, into the night. He shakes his head for a moment, breathing deeply.

"Why can't you see what I am?" he asks Boromir softly. "How can you love me if you can't even see me?"

Understanding explodes in Boromir's mind, his soul. He is flame now, burning away all doubt in this crucible the elf has pushed him into. He reaches over and pulls the elf's face close to his.

"I don't care," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "I don't care how ruined I am or shattered you are, don't you see? It doesn't matter. The shards of your soul fit with mine."


	2. Chapter 2

Chasing Storms

"Let's take a walk," Boromir suggests. Legolas quirks an eyebrow at him. They're sitting quietly together, listening to Merry and Pippin discuss dinner. It's quite restful under the giant trees, surrounded by the endless chorus of Lothlorien rising and falling about them. The elves have built a lovely pavilion for those not comfortable in flets, with trickling fountains and statuary blending into the background. Boromir was raised with walls, he misses them.

Boromir sees the quick glance that passes between the hobbits, an unspoken comment on the proclivities of these two unlikely friends, and ignores it. While Merry may be wishing for pheasant instead of venison, Boromir doesn't care if their hosts serve rainbows on toasted bread. He needs to deal with the hardness that has crept into Legolas' eyes once again.

The elf shrugs and stands, nodding at the hobbits, and leads Boromir through the towers of trees that surround them on all sides.

Boromir follows the elf over a path he can't see. Legolas seems to understand instinctively just where to place his feet, and Boromir does his best to keep up, not wanting to scramble over the giant roots that rise up like boulders. Boromir doesn't know how long they walk, he won't know their destination until they get there, until that shadow leaves the elf, gives him a moment of peace. He just wants to get him away from the singing. He doesn't speak Sindarin, never will, but there's one word that keeps exploding out of the songs, washing over the elf in tides of agony. _Mithrandir._

Bloody elves, Boromir thinks, caroling their grief to the skies. He pictures Aragorn, trying to shift into Gandalf's role like one of his discarded robes. It won't fit, Aragorn is not the wizard, does not inspire that confidence. He may guide, but he does not yet lead. Frodo understands more than the others, he catches the meaning in the elegies, but Frodo has Sam to comfort him. Legolas is his concern.

Legolas stops, finally, turns to look at the man. He leans against the great root of a tree, arms folded across his chest. His gaze is steady and his face has softened, just a tiny bit. But his eyes are brilliant, brittle. Boromir can't see through that blue glass, to the pain he knows lies behind them.

"Is this far enough for your purposes?" Legolas asks him. He sees the confusion flit over Boromir's face, and in some deep part of him, he gloats. He knows what Boromir wants, to comfort him, to lift the darkness that is smothering him like a moldy blanket. Legolas does not want that comfort, does not deserve it.

"Purposes?" Boromir asks, lifting a brow. "We could have gone back to the house for that." He almost wishes they had. That he would understand. Comfort for Boromir is to be wrapped in the elf's hair, his limbs, his scent, until everything but the elf disappears from the world. He is learning that Legolas needs something different.

"What happened in Moria..." Boromir begins, tentatively, seeking some way in past the clouds that surround the elf, hiding him.

Legolas cuts him off with a swift gesture of his hand. "Is not something I wish to discuss." There's a quiet finality in his voice, Boromir can hear bricks going up in the elf's walls. He won't talk about this. He can't, not in the face of that soft sympathy, that easy absolution. Failure on such a scale deserves a much more severe penance.

"Was not your fault," Boromir continues, as if the elf has said nothing, has encouraged him instead of dismissing him. "There is nothing in the world that could have destroyed that devil. Gandalf gave us our only chance."

Legolas looks at him with scorn. He can't believe Boromir is actually trying to rationalize this. He does understand that the man thinks this is going to help. He can't keep a caustic laugh back. "Glorfindel," he says. "The Balrog-Slayer?" He pushes down the disgust he feels with himself, but can't keep it out of his voice. "An elf?"

"Forgive me, I forgot," Boromir says, narrowing his eyes. "You elves are so much better than we common men. So noble, so pure." He sees the shot go home, and now there's a bitter gleam in Legolas' gaze. "You've forgotten your duty, Legolas."

"Don't you speak to me of duty," the elf hisses. "My duty was to destroy that filth." He gives up all pretense of calmness, his hands begin to shake, and he pulls them into fists. He can hear the hiss of flame, smell the char of the monster. Sees Mithrandir fall again, again, again. He can't get rid of the visions, the implications, the guilt.

"Your duty," Boromir snaps, "is to protect Frodo. At all costs. You swore an oath."

"To protect Frodo, we need Mithrandir!" Legolas howls in frustration. "I could have distracted it, let the rest of you get away. I should have! But I ran."

"You did not run," Boromir says ferociously. He takes the few steps between them and stands, solid as the stones of his homeland. "You covered the retreat with your arrows, you made sure everyone got out alive. That counts for nothing, I suppose?"

Legolas hisses at him, furiously, wordlessly. Boromir can never appreciate the panic he felt when he saw that monster. He twists, getting ready to run. Boromir blocks his path, unless Legolas decides to run straight up the tree he will have to run over Boromir. And Boromir is not moving. Legolas may bash himself against this rock until Aragorn comes to take them onward on their quest, Boromir is not moving. Some small part of Legolas that isn't whipping himself into an ecstasy of agony is comforted by that.

"You think you know better than Gandalf?" Boromir asks him gently. "Are you really that arrogant?" There is a sort of calm amazement in the man's voice. Legolas freezes. "I've come to expect from the elves around here," Boromir continues, nodding to indicate every elf in the Golden Wood, "but you're different, aren't you?"

Legolas says nothing, can say nothing. Boromir steps back to look at him, wants to calm the black tempests in the elf's eyes, gentle the breakers that smash self-loathing and despair into Legolas with every breath.

"You did nothing wrong." Boromir says, definitely and defiantly. "Regardless of what yonder elf-Queen may have put in your head."

Legolas does strike out now, forces the man back against the tree root, forearm to throat, so hard the breath is knocked out of the man. "How can you say that, to me?" he snarls, pushing him as if he would bury him in the wood itself.

"Truth," Boromir struggles to get the word out. He pushes back, fighting for air against the pressure the elf forces against him.

Suddenly the elf lets go. Boromir tips forward, coughing, taking in deep breaths of the wood flavored air. Legolas stares at him, through motes of golden light flitting in the air under this canopy of green. He's drowning in it.

Boromir, hands still on his thighs, raises his head to stare at the elf. Legolas continues to shake, eyes wide, fighting down the hurricane in his soul. Then he lunges.

Boromir hasn't got time to duck, he waits, and realizes that he trusts as well. He doesn't care if Legolas beats him to pulp, he'll do anything to get rid of that storm, to see the calm blue light back in his eyes.

The elf slams his body against the man, digging his fingers into his arms hard enough to leave bruises. He hungrily searches for his mouth, and Boromir, reeling at the unexpected, unexplained action, raises his head to meet him. Their lips collide and he feels the elf shudder, feels as if he's being pulled into the sea.

For Legolas is subtle in love. Always. He seduces with the inflection of a word, a gesture of his gracefully deadly hand, the sideways glance of intimacy. He can and does leave Boromir craving and weak from across the room. Frequently. But he does not initiate touch. Ever. It is always Boromir who caresses, kisses first. Then Legolas unleashes the tender, eager, enthusiastic lover.

This is different. This is the desperation in his soul clinging to a broken anchor, wanting to reach the safety of deadly shoals before he is washed away completely. Boromir's head swims and he reaches to pull the elf down to him. Legolas recoils, wanting nothing of tenderness, of sweetness. He drags the man up the rough bark, wrapping one hand in his hair, pinning his leg with his knee. He savages Boromir's mouth, forcing his storm onto him, into him.

Lightning ignites Boromir, and he reacts, wildfire dancing through him, knowing instinctively what it is the elf demands, desires, and he will do anything for Legolas.

Thunder rumbles in his chest and he fights back, matching the elf's lithe strength with his own bulk and determination. What Legolas wants is dominance, he wants to prove his strength, his power, his vitality, but Boromir is not dishonest enough to hand it to him. He wants to wash away all the shame in his soul. It is not what the elf needs, and Boromir realizes that at some primal level. He kisses the elf with his own burning ferocity, pulls impatiently at clasps and buttons, mutters the elf's name into his neck, his hair.

Legolas is stronger, though, and Boromir suddenly understands how much the elf has always held back. Somewhere in the back of his mind, some tiny part that isn't white hot with desire, he briefly wonders if he'll come through this without broken bones, but the pleasure outweighs any pain, and suddenly he is on his knees before the elf. Legolas' face is feral with lust, and Boromir knows that the moment has come.

"Look at me," he orders. The elf snarls at him, and Boromir grabs the hand holding his shoulder down, twists, pulls the elf down to him. "Look at me!" he rages again.

It breaks through the fog in the elf's head, he has to concentrate to bring Boromir's face into focus. And what he sees there is...

Acceptance.

Complete and total. At this moment, with Boromir half naked and panting before him, he can do anything. And it will be okay. Boromir will accept him. The beast in Boromir has risen to greet, embrace its brother demon into itself, take it to its heart.

Legolas crashes to his knees. Boromir reaches out and grips him by the chin, forcing his gaze into those wild eyes. "Everything you are," he groans. "All of you. The gales and the chaos. I want it all."

The storm breaks and the elf cries out. Boromir wraps his arms around him, pushing his hair back, and whispers vehemently in the pointed ear, "Dammit, Legolas, give me what I want!"

There is a ferocity in their lovemaking, there between the roots of the malorn tree, that has never been there before. But when Boromir gazes into those blue on blue eyes as Legolas explodes into himself and the universe, there is only the cleansing rain of a summer shower.


End file.
